A collaboration with the amazing Good Doctor. 👽🏜🔥💉🤘🐦‍⬛🤠

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@doctorlinko

After days tracking a band of ruthless cangaceiro thieves across the scorched backlands of Brazil, Father Elias—hunter, preacher, and reluctant executioner—finally caught up with them near the bones of an abandoned village. The clash was brutal and short; outnumbered but unyielding, Elias put down the brigands one by one. But victory came at a cost. A final, desperate shot tore through his side, dropping him into the dust as the world around him sank into a fevered blur.

Bleeding and half-conscious, Elias staggered through the ghost-town’s crooked alleys until he collapsed beside a rusted doorway. He expected death, or perhaps some divine reprieve. Instead, he awoke beneath lanterns made of fractured glass and brass tubing, in a place that smelled of salt, metal, and antiseptic rot.

This was the laboratory of the man locals whispered about only as the Good Doctor.

A figure masked and immaculate, the Doctor moved with unsettling elegance—too precise to be mercy, too gentle to be cruelty. He spoke little, if at all. His instruments glimmered in ways no village surgeon’s tools ever should. With a surgeon’s grace and an alchemist’s devotion, he removed the bullets lodged deep in Elias’s body, stitching torn flesh with whispered equations and steady hands.

Elias drifted in and out of consciousness, praying for deliverance yet sensing something far stranger at work. Every touch felt like a negotiation between life and something not quite death.

When the priest finally awoke—weak but alive—the realization hit him with a quiet dread:

He had been saved…

but not by God.

The Good Doctor stood in the doorway, mask unreadable, as if waiting to see what sort of man he had brought back from the brink. Whether he sought to help Elias, study him, or shape him into something new—only time would reveal.

But one thing was certain:

this resurrection belonged to no saint, and whatever path awaited Father Elias began not with a miracle…

but with plague-born hands.

🏜🏜🏜🏜🏜🏜🤠😷🏜🏜🏜🏜🏜🏜🏜🏜

I traced the cracks along the frame,

Watching daylight slip through seams.

Every splinter whispered names

Of all the ghosts I failed to keep.

The world was shaking, slow and sweet,

A fading ember in my palm.

And still I found a quiet peace

Inside the fracture of the calm.

Some say ruin tastes of dust and fear,

But I have always found it waiting here.

There is beauty in the breaking,

In the way the edges glow.

When the sky begins its aching,

When the ground forgets to hold.

I could watch it fall forever,

Every thread undone by time.

There is beauty in the burning

When the loss still looks like light.

My hands are stained with gentle ruin,

Touching sins I can’t rewind.

And now the Doctor works his sutures

On the wounds I’ve left behind.

A leather mask, a quiet pulse,

A trembling breath I barely feel.

He moves like someone used to loss—

Like grief was something he could heal.

Some praise the rising, some praise the climb,

But I keep falling just to see the shine.

There is beauty in the breaking,

In the way the edges glow.

When the sky begins its aching,

When the ground forgets to hold.

I could watch it fall forever,

Every thread undone by time.

There is beauty in the burning

When the loss still looks like light.

Maybe I was born for endings,

Born to walk that shadowed line.

Maybe faith is just a burden

For a heart too tied to crime.

And as he binds the bleeding fractures,

Cold steel stitching what remains—

It was not God who came this time,

But plague-born hands that held my pain.

There is beauty in the breaking,

In the slow and sacred fall.

In the sparks that flare from fading,

In the cracks along the wall.

I could hold the wreckage gently,

Let it spill and not resist.

There is beauty in the moment

Where the world forgets to exist.

_______________________________

Lyrics adapted from the The Good Doctor

@doctorlinko